


Greyhame and Stein

by northerntrash



Series: Greyhame and Stein [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:46:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/pseuds/northerntrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The side fics to the Greyhame and Stein 'verse.</p><p>(In which some ends are wrapped up and some stories are told.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dis

**Author's Note:**

> So some people have been asking me about Dis and the boy's father... so here you go, a quick little chapter on their story. 
> 
> Next chapter - Bilbo goes on a trip, and Thorin broods.

She’d met Vili on a cold November day.               

She’d fallen in love with him perhaps three days later (although it had taken her much longer to really understand that that was how she felt).

He’d been laughing when she saw him first, and even now so many of her memories of him have his face crinkled in amusement, his head thrown back in joy, or his hand pressed to his mouth to cover an inappropriate chuckle. He would laugh at anything; a poor joke, a sarcastic response, a sight that made him happy.

At irritated young women just trying to check out a book at the library.

He’d been behind the loans desk, the only one on duty that late in the afternoon, and she’d come in to collect a book she’d requested. She was in a rush; she needed to be home in time to get ready to go out with her friends, but when she’d passed him her card and he’d collected the commentary on Steinbeck, he paused, flicking through the back pages.

She tapped her fingernails against the desk surface in irritation, but he hadn’t even noticed her.

“Do you mind?” she’d asked, impatient, and he looked up at her in surprise before quirking a wide grin at her.

“Not at all,” he’d replied. “M’name’s Vili.”

She rather suspected the look she’d shot him was disdainful, but the longer he looked at her the more uncomfortable she ended up feeling; it was an appraising look, but friendly none the less, as if he had already decided to get to know her and was trying to work out the best way to go about it. His dark blonde hair was cut close to his head, his jaw strong and his smile charming; she felt suddenly self-conscious of her appearance, hair pulled back from her face in a messy bun, her baggiest jumper on over old jeans.

That reminded her – she needed to get home and ready to go out.

“That’s nice. Can I have my book now?”

He smiled up at her as he swiped the bar code of the book, and his grin was disarming.

“For work or pleasure?”

She flushed at his tone, laced with innuendo; she was young enough that the hard shell she would later develop against teasing was not quite in place.

“Both,” she snapped, almost snatching the book from his hands, trying to ignore the way his grin seemed to stretch ever, improbably, wider. “Thanks.”

“Any time. What’s your name?” he replied with a grin, before glancing down at the screen. “You have overdue fines, by the way.”

He could see her name on the screen in front of him; the profile popped up automatically when a library attendant scanned a card.

She scowled at him, an expression that her mother said was remarkably reminiscent of her older brother, and backed away before he said anything else.

Dis would later refuse to acknowledge that she was blushing when she left the library.

She was forced to return the next day, but as a literature postgrad student she found herself in the library most days anyway, and by this point she had quite forgotten the embarrassing incident with the attractive library worker. She spent a good few hours working through short loan books quite happily before collecting another book to take home; her research proposal was shaping up nicely, and she was feeling quite content with herself.

It was as she was once more approaching the desk that she saw, to her dismay, that he was there once more, his feet propped up on an empty chair with his legs bent at the knee. He had a book propped up on his thighs, and was frowning down at it, one hand running back and forwards over his shorn hair rhythmically.

He was just as attractive frowning as smiling, she thought, but she found herself missing the smile even as she remembered their last conversation and slowed her pace, glancing to see if there was anyone else on duty to check her book out: to her dismay, there wasn’t.

She rolled her eyes at herself at her momentary hesitation.

It was ridiculous that she was even _considering_ leaving her book behind to avoid speaking to him again.

He glanced up as she approached the desk, and his grin was back in a heartbeat, beaming up at her. She noticed for the first time the tongue stud in his mouth, as he tapped it against his teeth.

“Hello again,” he said, still looking up at her. “You came back.”

She stared at him, a little bemused. “Well, I am a student, and this is my library. It was inevitable that I would come back at some point.”

It came out cold, and she folded her arms across her chest, one eyebrow raised.

He didn’t seem off put, though, and continued to beam up at her.

“Well, I would like to help you, but I’m off the clock.”

She glanced up and down the long desk, seeing only empty positions.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

He nodded, and gestured to his book.

“Mhmm. The person on shift next is running late. But I’m reading.”

Her expression was distinctly unimpressed, bordering on impatient now, but still he smiled.

“But there’s no one else here, can’t you just swipe the book so I can go home?”

He raised one shoulder, his mouth twisting into a considering expression.

“Come on, please?”

And then he was smiling again.

“Well… that depends. Will you do me a favour if I do?”

She frowned.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Can you check it out or not?”

He nodded, and took the book from her, swiping it through. But rather than handing it back to her to simply picked up his own book, stood up, and tucked them both under his arm. She frowned, her mouth opening to protest, but before she could he was waving at someone who was rushing over, apologising for being late. They swopped placed behind the desk, and he walked off in the direction of the door.

She stared after him for a moment, bewildered, before her mind caught up with the situation.

“Hey!”

She ran after him, but as she drew level with him she was forced to keep pace as he continued to walk, not slowing for her.

“What do you think you are doing?”

He stared at her, eyebrows raised and his expression mock-surprised.

“I’m leaving, my shift is over.”

She gritted her teeth.

“Then give me my book.”

He looked at her, still maintaining the expression of surprise.

“But you said you’d owe me a favour.”

“So you’re stealing my book?!”

He laughed, and held the door open for her.

“Nope, I’m just carrying it while we go get coffee.”

She stared at him, forgetting to walk for a moment. He turned to back after a couple of paces, and grinned.

In the end they did go for a coffee, which turned into dinner, and then drinks, and finally with a long, heated kiss outside her house after he had walked her home, still carrying her book.

Dis had never been a romantic, but when he turned up at her front door the next day, a bunch of bedraggled tulips in his hands and a beaming grin on his face despite the fact that he was soaked from the sudden downpour outside, she threw her arms around him, and pulled him inside.

Vili became a sudden and unmovable presence in her life, and she had no desire to try and shift him. It had quickly become unfeasible to think that he had not been a part of her life, and she fell in love with him the way a wave crashes upon the shore,  a sudden and unstoppable force of emotion that she had had no chance of avoiding. His smile was a constant in her mind, occasionally distracting her focus from things she actually had to do.

He was a post-grad philosophy student, living in a flat as shabby as her own house share was; she read him poetry as he pressed kisses to her thighs, and laughed against her skin.

Time passed: they’d traded their studies for qualifications, then their rentals for a house together. They painted the walls bright colours and flicked the paint at each other, not caring that some fell through the gaps in the newspaper lying on the floor to stain the wooden boards.

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to the ground on top of him: he smeared paint across her cheeks as he pulled her down to kiss him.

The months then years had flown by, and their comfort around each other didn’t wane. Their house was small but cosy, and none of the furniture had matched – they’d made love in every room and on every surface within the first month, and then again in the next, pressing heated kisses against every inch of each other that they could reach.

“I love you,” he would laugh against her throat, her ribs, her hips, the soft and heated v between her legs. “I _love you_.”

And she loved him.

She loved him more than she had ever thought possible.

He did not complete her: she had known that from the start, and though the great romances she had studied all said that true love should make you whole she did not doubt their love because of it: she was very much aware that the only person who would ever truly be able to complete herself _was_ herself, and she was perfectly happy that way. No, what Vili gave her was something more precious to her: he _complimented_ her.

Her insecurities had never felt less when they were together, his free and easy affection never leaving her in doubt. He was as open as a book about everything, and always free with his thoughts, so she was never left fearing that he felt something other than he did for her. Where she was prone to heavy thoughts, he turned to light-heartedness, and would drag her along with him, bringing out of her dark moods and making her laugh when no one else would.

“Smile,” he would tell her when she was scowling, “There’s nothing that will make you feel better than that.”

When she had realised she was pregnant he was out, and work, and she had spent the day pacing back and forwards, resisting the urge to call Thorin to tell him, wanting Vili to know before anyone else. She had thrown herself into his arms when he had made it home, grinning against his neck as she blurted out the news.

There had never been a moment of fear or doubt that he would be just as happy.

He’d spun her around, pressing frantic kisses to her mouth.

“I _love_ you,” he’d said, “You _wonderful_ woman.”

It was a long, hard pregnancy, but when she felt ill he would press comforting, warm kisses against her shoulders and collar-bones, when she was sore he would rub her back. When she couldn’t sleep he would sit up with her, stroking her hair, though he nearly always fell asleep before she did.  One day he came home with a battered, second-hand fish tank, and filled it with bright, flickering fish. She would sit, him wrapped around her, her back pressed to his chest, and watch those fish when she couldn’t sleep, his forehead pressed to her neck.

They painted over the ugly wallpaper in the spare room that was to become a nursery together, still smearing each other with paint like teasing children. Vili dunked their hands in the tray and pressed them side-by-side, her hand on the left and his on the right, next to the window, their bright hand prints standing out against the pale yellow wall.

Vili had cried when Fili was born, alternating between laughter and praising Dis every few moments, as overwhelmed as she was.

When she was done, and Thorin had finally been allowed in by the nurses (and honestly, she could hear him angrily talking to them in the hallway from her bed) she had almost thought that he would break down into tears as well, though thankfully he’d managed to hold off.

But once Dis had claimed her baby back from her brother, Thorin had embraced Vili, a sudden and unexpected motion that had left both Vili and Dis a little stunned in the aftermath.

And so first one son had come, and a second was on the way when she began to notice how tired Vili was looking, how pale he was beginning to get. He waved it off, and at first she believed him: after all, it took a while to get used to the presence of a baby in the house. But as the months passed and Fili grew, his eyes bright and interested in the world, she began to worry more, and began to push him to get himself looked at.

“Alright, alright, wonderful woman,” he’d said in the end, caving, pressing his nose into the curve of her neck as he was wont to do. “I’ll call the doctors in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she’d said, and had kissed him.

But the doctor hadn’t been able to provide an answer, and as the names of the referrals became more and more serious she began to cling to him in the night, her belly growing again, beginning to fear. The vibrancy and vitality of the man she loved seemed to fade before her eyes as the months passed and they received the results from tests, results they had never imagined.

They were still so young; death had never been anything but a far off shadow on their horizon before.

One by one doctors shook their heads gravely, and stepped out of hospital rooms to _give them a moment to themselves_ , leaving a smiling man and a devastated woman behind them.

“You’ll be fine,” she’d told him fiercely, one hand holding on to her swollen belly as if to reassure herself that it was still there: Vili’s hand pressed over hers, comforting, and beneath them their child kicked, as if he knew his parents were there. “Of course you’ll be fine.”

And he’d laughed at her, and told her he loved her, and kissed the palm of her hand.

He hadn’t agreed; he didn’t like to lie.

It was grit and determination that kept him alive long enough to see his second son born, and had then passed quietly in the night some weeks afterwards.

The nurse said he was smiling when they had found him.

Dis had slumped to the floor of the hospital corridor shuddering with silent tears; Thorin had wrapped his arms around her, kneeling next to her, pressing her face against his shoulder. She was glad that she couldn’t see his face.

She wasn’t sure what she would have done if she hadn’t had her family; she suddenly felt so young, so lost. Balin, Dwalin and Thorin had moved into their small house, taking over the spare room on camp-beds they dragged from their own places. They helped where they could, but Dis found a certain peace in the late night feeds with Kili and the early morning rises with Fili; if she couldn’t be a lover any more then at least she was still a mother, and she threw herself into the role with as much determination as she could.

Dis had her boys; all five of them, really, around her.

And she had survived.

She laughs now at how desperately she’d wanted her sons to look like their father; as if she could ever forget his face. He was everywhere she looked, and at first that had been a burden. She had been unable to forget her grief and her pain, for every moment she managed to think of something else she seemed to spot something of him, every time she thought she might laugh she was crippled once more with the unfathomable pain of loss. She saw his smile in the sunlight playing of puddles in the road; she saw his steady hands in the tempered glass vase he had bought her that she still pulled out to put flowers in.

And as time passed it stopped hurting her as much to see him, and she could smile as she saw her love’s confident walk mirrored in Fili, his laughter bubbling out of Kili’s young mouth. When they asked her about their father – because as they grew old enough, they of course asked – she managed to smile, and tell them of all the daft things their father had done, and how much he had loved them.

The years passed, and one day she packed up the house they had bought together and moved to another one, a bigger one, closer to Thorin’s, where the boys would have a garden and she would have an office.

The fish tank came with her, even if it was looking scruffy these days.

They’d just about finished packing up, the day they were moving, and Dwalin had disappeared upstairs: he came down after about an hour and handed her something.

She had looked down at the square of wallpaper, cut from the wall of Fili’s room, her and Vili’s handprints a little faded now, but still there.

She’d cried, then, and framed the wallpaper.

He would always be there, she knew that. He would always be in clear September skies and rolling autumn fog; she would always see him in the steam from her morning coffee and the steady glow from the fish tank when she crept downstairs to curl in front of it on those nights she couldn’t sleep, watching the slow and steady flicker of fins and pretending he was still sat beside her. The fish he’d bought were long dead now, but it never mattered in those silent three in the morning moments. They were timeless- she could have been twenty years in the past or twenty years in the future, the only interruption to her silence the occasional swoosh of a car passing outside.

Her boys were asleep upstairs, lanky teenage bodies wrapped around their sheets, Kili no doubt drooling on his pillows. Her dog was curled up in her lap, a fixed point of warmth.

Vili wasn’t with her, but she was still happy.

_“I love you, you wonderful woman.”_

And I love you, she thought. I always will, you ridiculous man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this on a tablet in hospital so it is no doubt littered with spelling errors, I'll return to fix them when I get home <3

_“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love.”_ _–_ Love Actually, 2003

 

As Bilbo’s plane descended through the heavy layer of grey cloud he found himself letting out a long, slow exhale of relief, loud enough for the woman in the seat next to him to glance at him out of the corner of her eye: it was not relief for the safe return of the plane (although of course he was thankful for that), for he’d never been afraid of flying. In some ways he actually enjoyed the strange weightlessness that came with take-off and landing, the excited tension of a Departures lounge.

No, he thought, as the lines of buildings and the network of roads, marked out in the late evening dimness by the spots of streetlights, came into view; his relief came solely from finally, after far too long, being _home._

When Gandalf had proposed the job, his initial and immediate response had been to refuse: the idea of leaving home for three straight months without a break to return was a little intimidating, particularly at this stage of his life. In his early twenties he would not have hesitated – in fact, there had been many times he had jumped on a plane to follow the older man around the world with little more than a few days’ notice, and often no real understanding of where and why he was going.

But he was older now, he was settled, his mind had told him as he had wrinkled his nose at Gandalf in disbelief. What was he supposed to do about his responsibilities, his family, his work, his cat?

Particularly his cat.

Smeagol did _not_ like sitters.

But then Gandalf had looked at him from underneath the silvery line of his eyebrows, that infuriating light in his eyes that suggested he already believed that he was going to get his way, and Bilbo had known that he was sunk.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he’d asked, and Bilbo had glared.

“You can’t keep saying that every time you want me to do something, you know,” he’d shot back across the desk of Gandalf’s office, but it lacked the usual venom. He’d already known he was going to agree. “One of these days it won’t work anymore and you’ll have to find someone else to push out of their front door.”

Gandalf shrugged.

“It hasn’t failed yet... and neither have you.”

Bilbo had huffed, and then gone home to start making arrangements.

The three month trip to the Himalayas to chart the experiences of a charity group _was,_ as Gandalf had promised, the experience of a lifetime. The group had been a charming and chatty collection of middle-aged individuals from all kinds of backgrounds: everyone had had different reasons to raise the money and complete the trip, and Bilbo had had much more fun than he had expected photographing their geographical and mental journey for the charity. Not only had the company been much more pleasant than he had anticipated, the landscapes and scenery had been breathtaking, and indisputably like nothing he had ever seen before – he was rather glad that he had brought so many memory cards with him, because he had taken nearly as many pictures for personal enjoyment as he had for the job in hand.

But it had also been three months up in a huge and extensive mountain range with no way of connecting to the outside world except the occasional opportunity to use a satellite phone. Though the team was in daily contact with the outside world, to assure their sponsors of their safety (and they kept a 24 hour updated blog on the trip to let family and friends know that everything was still okay) it wasn’t exactly the kind of situation in which you could have long conversations with people back home.

Which, Bilbo had to admit, had been much harder than he had expected.

When he was younger he had barely thought about home when he was away; now it seemed there was very little that could get it off his mind.

The plane touched down with only a minor bump, and Bilbo leant back in his seat as it braked, the blur of the runway lights outside slowly becoming individually distinguishable. The terminal buildings were bright blocks against the half-light, neon markers of home: he found himself peering out of the small window, though there was very little he could actually see.

He supposed the real difference between now and his travels years ago was not really his age, but the people he had to leave behind: he had missed Frodo like a hole to the chest, it being by far the longest he had ever gone without seeing the young boy since he had born. It had never really dawned on him that he normally saw the young boy weekly, between school runs for Prim (the bonus of his career was the flexible hours), dinner with his two closest friends, and days out with the lad.

Bilbo had found himself wondering if the bright spark of his laughter would have changed, what new words he would have learnt, what his new favourite book was, whether he was still walking around with Thorin the shark attached to his hip as he had been when Bilbo had left.

A thought he had tried not to dwell on was whether or not there would be that heart-breaking moment when he saw Frodo again, the moment that all people who are forced to spend long periods of time away from children that the love are forced to endure, when the child in question spends a long, hesitant moment just _watching,_ because they can’t quite remember who you are anymore.

Of course they always did remember eventually, but there was nothing quite so hard for so brief a time as that innocent moment.

Bilbo rather suspected he’d have to hug shark-Thorin if Frodo hid behind his mother’s legs, just to hug _something._

And then, of course, there was Thorin.

Actual Thorin that is, not the shark.

It had been eighty six long days since Thorin had kissed him goodbye outside his house, on a bright morning back in June, pressing against him a deep and unerring insistence, as if to try and imprint himself on Bilbo’s mind and soul, to keep a little bit of him with Bilbo on his long trip. It had worked: Bilbo had fallen asleep every night with the ghost of his hands on his sides, the whisper of absent words against his neck. There had been a fear in that kiss, something almost desperate about the way Thorin’s hands had fisted in his shirt at his hips, and though the taller man had said little in the lead up to him leaving, Bilbo rather suspected that he was having to bite back asking Bilbo not to go.

If anything, that had made the trip harder: had Thorin tried to stop him from leaving, Bilbo wouldn’t have listened, but he might have felt a little resentful as he saw the sorts of places he might never get the chance to again.

Instead, he just felt the empty space of a missing body at his side, the phantom press of fingertips, lips, a nose in his hair (a mess of long curls now, much in need of a trim).

He hadn’t managed to get in touch with anyone to tell them that he was coming home on this flight; he hadn’t bothered to bring a phone with him on the trip for obvious reasons, and their bus back to the airport had been delayed, so that by the time they arrived he hadn’t had time to fire off messages on his tablet. He supposed he could have done so when he transferred, but the first long flight had taken it out of him, and he had been too tired to even consider rooting through his bag.

Bilbo found himself regretting that decision now.

Loneliness and longing had hit him like a wave as the seatbelt signs had switched off and he had stood, knowing there would be no one at the gate, and not even the no-doubt unfriendly reception of Smeagol at home to welcome him back (the cat was staying with Prim, good behaviour assured by the inexplicable affection the cat had for her sticky-fingered son).

His nap on the second leg of the journey had revitalised him somewhat, though he suspected that as soon as he put his head to a pillow he would be out like a light, and that his sleeping pattern would be screwed for at least the next week now; he found himself tapping his feet impatiently as they waited to disembark the plane.

Unfortunately, it seemed that everything was determined to move at the traditional British pace for six on a Monday evening: that is, unfathomably slowly.

The stewardess smiled at him as he finally managed to leave the plane, and he found himself beaming back, incomparably happy.

“Welcome home, sir,” she told him.

“Thanks,” he replied, “it is good to be back.”

The evening was mild, the air heavy with the thick layer of petrol smell and rubber that always permeated airport runways, but he took a deep breath nonetheless, because it was home, and there was something pleasant about that smell anyway, for all that it lay heavy on his tongue. It was a promise of sorts, he thought, immediately scoffing at himself for being so fanciful; a promise of both homecoming and potential.  

The queue through passport control was as long as it always was, and the coil of excitement in Bilbo’s chest only seemed to wind tighter as he stood, almost jumping from foot to foot by the time he made to the front. Then it was baggage claim, another long and infuriating wait; the entire airport experience constructed, Bilbo was certain, to frustrate the weary traveller. He almost found himself wishing he had picked up a bottle of something potently alcoholic at some point on his travels just to ease the tension now, but he rather suspected that necking from a litre bottle of vodka in the middle of the airport might end up with him getting asked politely to leave before he’d even had a chance to find his luggage.

But eventually his bags did arrive, and he made his way through to Arrivals, a taxi very much on his mind. Somewhat blinkered, he dodged past embracing friends and laughing families, couples smiling softly at each other, bags abandoned. The last of the summer sunlight was streaming through the wide glass doors, illuminating these small snapshots of love with a hazy glow, and for a moment he thought about digging around until he found his camera: unfortunately, exhaustion got the better of him, and he ploughed onwards.

Of course, the other good thing about calling ahead would have been having someone to pick him up, he thought as he came to a stop, cursing as he viewed the desolate taxi rank with dismay: clearly several planes had disembarked at the same time, and had managed to empty even the sizable ranks of an international airport for the time being.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

“Need a lift?”

The voice was achingly familiar, from right behind him, and he span on his heel, letting go of the handle on his bag as he went, barely noticing that it dropped to the damp pavement with a clatter.

“Thorin?”

He was met with that crooked, half-smile he’d come to know so well,  spilling out across a face he found himself mapping with his eyes, re-committing every detail to memory, eyes flickering from one point to another, checking for change and finding only familiarity, from the warm affection in his eyes to the brush of stubble across his jaw. His hair was perhaps a little longer than last time he’d seen him, still swept back and streaked with silver, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he kept his gaze firmly on Bilbo, almost as if he were afraid that he might disappear.

He found himself worrying a similar thought in his own mind as his eyes followed the line of his mouth, the curve of his throat, the familiar hands, one of which was half-towards him, as if in an aborted attempt to reach for him. The evening was too warm for a coat, so his throat was bare above a dark, light-weight jumper, sleeves rolled up across his broad forearms; Bilbo was momentarily distracted by the thought of stepping in closer and letting those arms wrap around him.

“What… what are you doing here?”

Thorin’s smile dimmed a moment, and it took him a long, exhaustion-induced moment to realise that he perhaps had not sounded quite as welcoming as he should have – as he honestly did feel.

Unfortunately, Thorin answered before he could protest his own tone.

“Someone got in touch with Gandalf with your flight details… he passed them on to Prim, who called me.”

Bilbo had half a moment to worry that Prim had been speaking to Thorin, that Prim in fact had Thorin’s _number,_ before the taller man continued.

“Is… well, she thought you would appreciate having someone come and pick you up.”

His voice was slightly clipped now, a little forced, and Bilbo shook himself. The exhaustion was slowing his wits and dulling his reactions; he was well aware that if he tried to say anything reassuring he would probably mess it up and make everything feel even more awkward, so he did the only thing that he could think of to do in this situation. It was with a huff of relief that he threw himself at Thorin, half-tripping on the way, wrapping his arms around his neck and _burying_ his face in the curve of his throat.

There was a brief pause of surprise, and then Thorin’s arms tightened around him, one around his waist and the other around his shoulders, holding him close and secure. It was testament to how tired he felt that he almost thought he might cry; for a moment he felt the prickle of tears against his eyes, though he quickly blinked them back.

Thorin must have felt something of this, because after a moment longer he pulled back, looking down at him cautiously, a twist of something close to nerves still lingering around the tightness of his jaw.

“Are you alright?”

Bilbo shook his head slightly.

“I just…” he rubbed at his eyes, and when he glanced back he saw that Thorin was frowning, genuinely anxious looking now.

Bilbo reached for him, feeling a little guilty.

“I just missed you _so much._ ”

He pulled Thorin down, pressing his mouth hard against Thorin’s in a bruising, desperate kiss, as if he was leaving rather than coming home; the nerves he had not let himself show the last time they were together came rushing out, and he clung at Thorin’s shoulders, frantic and uncertain. He had not known what three months apart would do to a relationship barely out of the fledgling stages, and he had found himself doubting not only the longevity and staying power of Thorin’s feelings, but his own as well: many a night he had been kept awake worrying if the distance would have them drift apart, irreparably separate. There was a strange and inexplicable second of fear, as if he thought this moment might disappear only to have him wake in a tent on the other side of the world.

But then Thorin’s hands were cradling his head, fingers digging into the long curls, tugging at the longer wave of them appreciatively as he tilted Bilbo’s head, pulling Bilbo’s lower lip gently between his teeth before pressing his way into his mouth, stepping close so that the length of his body was flush to Bilbo’s.

There was something so achingly familiar about the touch, the warmth of him, and something settled in his chest; the frantic bird that had been beating against the bars of his ribcage was soothed to stillness by the drag of Thorin’s fingertips over his neck, sweet and slow and full of and undeniable relief.

“I missed you, too,” he mumbled against Bilbo’s mouth after a long, still moment.

Bilbo murmured a laugh, his hands moving to pet across Thorin’s jaw, tracing the hollow contours of his cheeks, kissing him again, over and over, wherever he could reach. They were in the way of people coming out of the airport, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, ignoring the few huffs of annoyance and the much more numerable chuckles and playful catcalls alike in favour of pressing himself as close as possible to the man that he had missed so unfathomably.

“Thank you,” he said, hiding his face in Thorin’s neck. “Thank you for coming.”

“I love you,” Thorin said, his voice catching on the final syllable as if he had only just realised what he had said, as if he had meant to answer with something else, but the words had forced themselves out regardless of his intentions. From the look on his face as Bilbo pulled back a little to look up at him, that was probably the case.

Thorin’s mouth was a little open, and he made a noise in the back of his throat, something close to clearing his throat, as if he were trying to pull the words back.

Bilbo smiled.

“I love you,” he replied, without an ounce of hesitation or reserve. It might have been the first time they had said it aloud, but Bilbo had put the name to his feelings a long time before now; Thorin’s obvious hesitation was sweet, really. Had he honestly not realised that Bilbo already knew?

Thorin’s smile, when it came after a long moment, was breath-taking.

“Daft man,” Bilbo said, fondly, reaching up to run a hand through Thorin’s hair, pushing it back over the curve of his head. “Let’s never be apart for that long again, okay?”

Thorin nodded.

“Agreed.”

Bilbo kissed him again, then, just because; it was a mild and pleasantly damp evening, and he was back in the arms of the man who loved him, who was kissing him back with all the pent up passion of a starving man set upon a feast. The damp was soaking into Bilbo bag, no doubt through the lining now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care; more taxis had arrived, and the drivers were rolling their eyes at the two of them impatiently, but there were more important things to think about.

“Take me home?” he asked, when they eventually pulled apart enough to speak, and Thorin nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shamingcows has drawn insanely beautiful art for the Candid photograph-in-Stein-scene, and you should really go and gasp at it -  
> http://shamingcows.tumblr.com/post/88967860438/he-looked-like-hed-had-a-few-late-nights-in-the


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